March Winds

March winds

rattle at the door.

There was a time

when I hated nothing more.

The blowing bluster

swirling Winter-brown leaves, lackluster.

Until I met the ruach.

Ruach is the wind rolling over rock.

Ruach is the Spirit, rustling your frock.

Ruach is the breath, the very breath of God.

LTM 3/16/25